


Let Them Eat Cake

by emmaziege



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Cake, Cameras, Cell Phones, Come Eating, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Exhibitionism, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, Facials, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Food Kink, Food Metaphors, Humor, Illusion Cakes Are Stupid, Instagram, M/M, Not Beta Read, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Puns & Word Play, Rimming, Sexual Humor, Social Media, Swearing, The Cake Is A Lie, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, have your cake and eat it too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27090901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaziege/pseuds/emmaziege
Summary: “I could eat a bite of you,” Geralt’s low, rasping voice came out equal parts playful and predatory. The hot breath of his words glanced across the wetness of the place where he’d tasted Jaskier’s skin. His arm extended around Jaskier’s side, his wide palm and long fingers enclosing around the phone and effectively blocking out the distraction from Jaskier’s view.Jaskier let out a short, breathy sound. He dumbly jabbed at the buttons on his phone until he managed to turn off the display, twisting it out of Geralt’s hold. He pushed the device to one side of the thin, scratchy comforter. “The biting… That part doesn’t sound so awful. It’s the idea of being chewed that I really can not abide.”************Geralt is more interested in eating out Jaskier than in the illusion cakes trending on the 'Gram. Jaskier feeds on the attention. It gets delightfully messy. A very cheeky little food-metaphor (no actual food harmed in the making) smut fic.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 118





	Let Them Eat Cake

“Everything is cake. All of it.” Jaskier was ostensibly telling this to his companion, as the two of them were in the room together. The brunette in his purple-pink robe was so fascinated (and vaguely disturbed, judging by the contorted expression on his face) that he stooped over his phone in his hand to stare at the video playing on the screen intently. He absolutely did know better than to contort himself into a hunchback, blue eyes wide, lower jaw hanging open in a way that was both unattractive and bad for his posture. But he could hardly help himself.

Geralt, at work planning out their next leg of travel on a clunky black laptop that must be ten years old, said nothing. By Jaskier’s standards, such an absurd statement was all too typical.

“A can of soda, a shoe, a bag of potato chips… This one’s a roll of toilet paper,” the other marveled. Or despaired. Perhaps a fair bit of both.

Geralt sighed to himself. “You said it was cake.”

“Oh, it is cake.” This slight indication of interest in the subject spurred Jaskier into more excited prattle. He straightened himself out where he sat and looked over at Geralt from his perch at the end of the bed. “That’s the maddening trick of it! Here, a glass of water. Of all things! Or so it seems, until there’s a knife carving into it and you have to ask yourself if any object in eyesight isn’t also suspect of secretly being an artfully layered illusion cake. These Instagram bakers are barking mad geniuses.”

“What’s wrong with cake looking like… Cake?” Geralt finished what he was doing and turned off the computer, folding the screen down.

“It’s rather brilliant marketing, actually,” Jaskier admitted, angling his face this way and that, then determined it was easier to turn the phone itself in his hands. “What a surprise! They’re this summer’s sensation on the ‘Gram.”

Jaskier was shifted slightly on the cheap mattress as Geralt’s greater weight lowered onto the bed just behind him. He lifted the phone higher to show Geralt what he was watching now. “A bottle of lotion. How much time do you suppose that must have taken them?”

Geralt made a face from over Jaskier’s shoulder, looking altogether less impressed. “Thick fondant and food paint, worked and overworked. Can’t taste good.”

“No one cares a flying fig how the cake tastes,” Jaskier assured him with amusement in the observation. “They’re delicious for the eyes and the imagination, Geralt! A sumptuous delight to behold. That’s all that matters. ...Oh, gods! For one instant I thought that was actually the baker’s own arm,” Jaskier exclaimed as a knife sliced into a cake painstakingly shaped to resemble a tattooed hand and forearm. The arm that was rather cake had even been detailed with realistic fingers, creased with fine wrinkles and layered with false fingernails.

Geralt grunted and leaned back. He thought the superficial gag hardly rated such fascination, but it clearly entertained the musician. With sugary things in mind, there was coincidentally a hint of chamomile’s apple-sweetness to Jaskier’s own skin, fresh from his recent shower. Still a bit wet with damp, the artful tousle of his boyish, floppy hair rivaled licorice for lustre. The shining fuschia of his silk robe, gaping open to the sash across his belly, could be regarded as a confectionary analog in shine and hue. The exposed chest was thick with hair that his fingers itched to grip. How had Jaskier put it? ‘Delicious for the eyes and the imagination.’

“How do I know you aren’t made of cake?” For Geralt, the ridiculous question was positively jovial. Yet there was a wolfish intensity to his tone and a quirk to the corners of his lips that should come as a warning of his true motives.

“How indeed,” Jaskier quipped back without looking away from where his eyes were fixed on the screen of his phone, thinking nothing of it. He was too well engrossed in the cognitive dissonance of a fucking shoe cleaving into neatly segmented chocolate cake with gooey vanilla frosting between layers.

Geralt leaned forward, face turned to fit against the curve of Jaskier’s neck as he parted his mouth and sank a soft bite against the man’s skin. 

Jaskier all but jumped under Geralt’s teeth in a rather satisfying manner, the urge to pull away at odds with his shock of pleasure. “Geralt!” He wasn’t entirely certain if it was intended as reproachful or encouraging.

“I could eat a bite of you,” Geralt’s low, rasping voice came out equal parts playful and predatory. The hot breath of his words glanced across the wetness of the place where he’d tasted Jaskier’s skin. His arm extended around Jaskier’s side, his wide palm and long fingers enclosing around the phone and effectively blocking out the distraction from Jaskier’s view.

Jaskier let out a short, breathy sound. He dumbly jabbed at the buttons on his phone until he managed to turn off the display, twisting it out of Geralt’s hold. He pushed the device to one side of the thin, scratchy comforter. “The biting… That part doesn’t sound so awful. It’s the idea of being chewed that I really can not abide.”

Heavy hands skimmed trails in the slippery silk across Jaskier’s ribs. Geralt stroked a broad, calloused hand into the part of its folds gone akimbo on Jaskier’s frame, palm almost hot where it smoothed those thick, dark curls tapering down the man’s middle. Geralt bent his head to press his face to Jaskier’s neck, indulgently breathing him in as his long, pale hair faintly tickled the exposed shoulder. “You smell sweet.” He tugged at one side of the robe, the gesture demanding but careful. Like peeling the shining wrapper away from something decadent. “Let me have a taste.”

This was where Jaskier was supposed to say something snappy and clever, wasn’t it? Call and response was a very important tool for a live performer’s trade. It created the engagement...and the intimacy...that...the audience…

But Jaskier’s breath came more heavily now, his nipples firming to stiff peaks over his heaving chest, prick thickening with indisputable interest at the amorous manhandling. Silk skidded over the tip of his penis, slithered over his thigh, as it was drawn open and away by Geralt’s large hand. His legs flagrantly splayed without his expressly instructing them to do so, unfolding wider over the side of the bed, asking wordlessly for more adoration. He turned his face, trying to look back at Geralt, but it wasn’t much use with the man snuffling his neck and upwards to his chin. “What pray tell do you think I am, Geralt? If not cake, a pastry? If you say ‘a pie’ after what you told me you think of my singing, I swear—”

Geralt licked his cheek. A long, wet drag of warm tongue, as the heated grasp of Geralt’s hand encircled the bare jut of Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier was momentarily stupefied, as stunned as he was tickled, in sensation and spirit. He felt himself give an airy tune of a laugh, reflexively pushed from his lungs. But it evaporated into the air at once, exhaled with a shiver as Geralt’s hand caressed his growing erection with great attention. The achingly soft scratch of those rough fingers, the roll of his thumb, the powerful grip that held rather than squeezed, they shaped him to fullness and quickly.

The hand pumped and kneaded, tender but forceful. Jaskier felt Geralt’s small, tight smile in his words, though he could not see it from his current position. “You’re a tart.”

Jaskier was hardly able to refute this jab of wordplay, given that he was distinctly preoccupied with beginning to hump Geralt’s hand. Yet there was little gratification to be had. No sooner had he started than Geralt was withdrawing, Jaskier giving a forlorn groan and turning to watch the other rise from the bed.

“Take off your robe.”

Jaskier might argue, but he’d rather not have that conversation with the dry cleaner again, and it did bode well for whatever Geralt intended to come next. He stood and posed, deliberately displaying his figure complete with erection before the hungry-eyed witcher, playing up the tart which he had been quite fairly branded as whilst he did so. He made eye contact, otherworldly amber fixed with disarming, soulful blue, and let the robe slip down his arms to shape a soft crescent around his feet.

He looked up and down Geralt’s muscular, chiseled figure, mildly disappointed to see Geralt still fully clothed in black leather biker boots and dark, worn denim with a matching t-shirt. It made his awareness of how very naked he was feel a bit unsettling for being so disproportionate. He was standing there with his prick bobbing about in the open air, half-nibbled snack he was and ardently hoping to be made into more of a meal still. But there were ways to express what was wanted and to eschew any awkwardness aside from the predictability of coming right out and saying ‘wouldst thou eat me?’

Instead Jaskier lowered his lashes and put some swagger into his descent, making his every motion into a bit of what he determined would be a seductive performance. Soft and pale, fit and saucy, come and get your tart, big boy, he wrote into the purse of his lips and the languid stretch of his limbs where he slid onto the center of the bed. Hips canted, eyebrows waggled, hands stroking their way between his thighs, caressing his own balls and frisking his cock as it grew darker, fuller, firmer. Even if Geralt was still wholly dressed, Jaskier absolutely had the man’s undivided focus. The bulge in the black denim beneath Geralt’s belt told him as much, if the captivation of the stoic man’s gaze and the ready tension in his figure left any room for doubt.

“Cake or tart, sweetheart,” Jaskier could not help but gild his tease with just a hint of rhyme, toeing the line between utter hedonistic delight and the precarious uncertainty that came with bedding a tight-lipped witcher. He never knew exactly what Geralt was thinking, even for all the time they had spent together. Oh, he had very well-informed guesses. But then, Geralt voiced so little of his heart and mind unless it was a matter of life or death that he could never be sure. Jaskier sighed, danced his fingers along the fat vein along the underside of his dick, and gave his most come-hither expression. “Don’t you want dessert?” 

Which, in retrospect, was perhaps not so different from ‘wouldst thou eat me’ in spirit.

Geralt’s ready answer came in actions, not words, although they were articulate actions indeed. He dropped onto the bed between Jaskier’s legs, lapping the tip of Jaskier’s cock so that the bard gasped. It reminded the witcher of salted caramel, but only for the context of baked goods, the thin, clear syrup of precum offering a hint of alkaline. Spread lips mouthed down the length and slipped back again, then moved to suck the hang of Jaskier’s balls, tongue tip flirting between the rounded shapes. 

Jaskier whined softly, fingers still playing himself as he peered down the sprawl of his body to see what could be seen of Geralt crouched to service him. In spite of the act of watching the pale-haired, golden-eyed man lavishing his sex with artful licks and filthy, open-mouthed kisses, he was ultimately disarmed by the sensations of having his perenium kneaded, his asshole thumbed in a swirl. Those heated, possessive hands moved to push back each of his thighs beneath either knee, and Jaskier let his head fall back to the mattress as that roving mouth met his asshole. He was likewise unprepared for what came immediately afterwards.

“Could be cake,” came the rumbled muttering, words hummed against his pucker.

Jaskier was, and not for the first time, astonished with the unpredictable humor that so dry and dour a man as Geralt could gift him. He was similarly impressed by the soft nibbling, the ply of saliva-moist lips, the dip and delve of tongue to flirt with his opening. “Let them eat cake,” he was reasonably sure he might have said. Reasonably sure, insofar as the warm, wet thrust of Geralt’s tongue made the whole of him twist and curl, his heartbeat pounding through the grip of his fist at the base of his now achingly solid cock. Who could reliably think and recite cute witticisms under such delectable use?

No, not witticisms. This was hardly the place or time. But ravenous requests... 

“Geralt,” the words came unbidden from out of giddy desire, a nonsense-patter of sexual urgency. His erection jerked at the sounds of his own begging, this time indisputable over the quiet, slippery noises from lower down on the bed, turning him inside-out. “I want you to glaze my face with drippings of come icing. I want you to drizzle wet, jellied splashes into my mouth. Coat me thick and glossy, _abricoter.”_ Jaskier himself could not have said where he had picked up that particular culinary term native to Toussaint. _Blonde topping,_ if he recalled its literal meaning correctly, and that did seem particularly fitting. Not that such a detail mattered in the slightest at present, but for making his horny pleading sound especially cultured. “Please, Geralt.”

Slurping his way out of Jaskier so thoroughly that the bard yelped, Geralt withdrew and rolled his lips. He looked up at the man from between his wide thighs and the arc of his dribbling cock, the bard made panting and wanton. Geralt issued no rejoinder as he sat back on his heels, neither taunt nor promise beyond peeling his dark shirt up over his chiseled torso inch by mouth-watering inch. Wrestled clear of his wide shoulders, the shirt was discarded, silver medallion and hair swishing free from the collar before shifting back into place. His hands continued lower, roughly yanking open his belt, quickly proceeding to thumb open the button and drag the zipper, with slight difficulty, around the significant package restrained at the crotch. Jeans still secured in place by his boots, it became necessary for Geralt to sit his ass down and undress them, and he huffed a soft curse behind the set of his teeth for the inconvenience.

Jaskier propped himself up on the pillows before the headboard and put down a knee to watch all of this as he waited, teasing himself with digits deft from fingering guitar strings. He was grateful that Geralt had opened his fly before unfastening his boots, which gave him a view of Geralt’s considerable length and girth where it angled half-hard over his thigh. If he waited but a few minutes, he knew, Geralt would step clear of all those meddlesome trappings and give him what he wanted. Which was fine, but for one thing: Jaskier had never been very good at waiting.

Taking the initiative, Jaskier climbed down the side of the bed to kneel on the floor. The look on the man’s typically stony face alone as Jaskier crawled between the boots and denim piled up over his ankles and pushed his way into Geralt’s lap alone was worth the effort. His reactions became only more rewarding as Jaskier collected Geralt’s cock in hand, rolling his witcher’s heavy balls with the heel of his palm, fingertips trailing beneath. He ate kisses from the thin, musky skin, starting at the root of him and moving upwards, until he was easing back the foreskin by the flirtation of his lips alone. He might have played him for longer with such touches, but for Geralt’s hand pushing into his hair, clutching his short, dark locks tight. Jaskier gave a soft smile as the wide head of Geralt’s fat tip was guided against his lips. Ah, to be fed breakfast in bed.

Jaskier’s jaw shifted open wide, and he held as much of Geralt as he could cradled in his mouth. He stroked with his tongue, pumped with the circle of his thumb and fingers down to the base of Geralt’s shaft. His lips clung softly around the long, fat cock as he leaned in closer, sliding to nudge Geralt deeper down his throat before easing back to go at him again. He sighed through his nose, relaxing into the use, welcoming the pressure bumping the back of his throat and the knowledge of the ache all of that would bring him later. He could finish him like this easily and be glad to swallow his prize. But now he dearly wanted what he’d asked for. He still madly craved the sheer smutty decadence of being frosted with Geralt’s jizz.

In anticipation of this dramatic finish, he fucked Geralt by way of sucking, suckling, singing vowel-only ballads until his eyes blinked wet with the pleasurable pain of giving himself over in such a way. And so too did Geralt’s grip keep his head bowed to his work, hips setting the demanding pace of it, but with the care he always took in restraining their bedsport so that he would do Jaskier no lasting harm. How did he know, Jaskier wondered idly as he rocked over Geralt’s shaft, his own saliva trickling down the corner of his mouth? How did he always know what angle to thrust at, how much force to apply, that would wreck his lover so deliciously but never truly break him? He may even have been able to speculate on some of those answers for himself, but Geralt was suddenly shifting away from him, and back again, the hand leaving his hair in an abruptly conspicuous manner.

Jaskier blinked, bliss-stunned as the phallus smacked his reddened mouth lightly. His eyes opened to focus on the immediacy of Geralt’s cock being rubbed against his lips, at first, but what he saw as he shifted his gaze slightly higher made him moan. Geralt had picked up his phone from where it had been wholly forgotten on the bed, and the flat rectangle now stared directly at him with all three of its gleaming camera eyes.

“Make it look good for the ‘Gram,” Geralt rumbled.

Jaskier, of sound mind and full faculties, would be almost entirely sure that Geralt would never actually record or publish such a thing as the statement implied. Geralt was painstakingly private, and despised social media platforms unanimously. He was one of those. Practically a Luddite.

Jaskier, still in the dizzy flush of having been blessedly face-fucked, gasping for a fresh breath even as the warmth began to spurt over his face in thick streams, could only be overwhelmed with shameless exhibitionist gratification. He gave a melodic, open cry of a sound, letting his eyes slip closed again to give in to being so completely overcome. Geralt’s spend spattered him, sliding down his parted lips and striping his tongue, trailing his cheek, his chin, Jaskier’s own fanciful imagination projecting the lustful admiration of his audience. He hardly had to touch himself to trigger his own orgasm, his twitching handful bursting free the pent pleasure. His stomach was splashed to match his face, and he knew in that messy, heady moment, he was truly seen, as craved and precious as any fleeting fancy of dense sponge cake and slutty buttercream.

“Geralt,” Jaskier sighed dreamily some minutes later, as the other sucked and lapped his own mess from Jaskier’s face.

“Hmm?” Geralt only turned Jaskier’s chin in his hand, cleaning more of the mess under a kiss to Jaskier’s cheek.

Jaskier almost forgot what it was he was asking, as Geralt’s hungry mouth started bathing his stomach in kind. But his empty stomach was good enough to remind him. “On our way out of town,” he mustered the first part of his question. He smacked his lips before adding — “Can we stop at a bakery?”

From somewhere around his navel, Geralt huffed a laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I’m Zee, aka Emma Ziege. I write mostly sex and horror, but I don't take myself or my works too seriously. I've been in fandom circles for a while and written various drabbles, but this is my first ever fully-realized fic! So your every kudos, comment, bookmark and subscription means a lot to me.
> 
> Someone on Twitter made a remark about Geralt eating Jaskier's ass to make sure it wasn't cake, and, well - here we are.
> 
> I plan to post semi-regularly, so be sure to subscribe for updates of similar "quality."
> 
> HMU on the socials:
> 
> Twitter: emmaziege
> 
> Tumblr: emmaziege
> 
> I'm open for asks/dms to talk about this fic or general Witcher smut nonsense.
> 
> BYOC = Bring Your Own...Cake <3


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